


Passage

by abelrunner



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Murder, Coping, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Healing from trauma, I think of an AU like this with every new fandom, Therapy, and this time I'm actually writing it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-17 15:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abelrunner/pseuds/abelrunner
Summary: On April 15th, 2019, Miguel Rivera went missing from the small town of Santa Cecilia. A month later, he arrived in the Land of the Dead. A child in the Land of the Dead is always a sad thing. A murdered child is another thing entirely.A story about family, healing, friendship, bad dreams, and the healing powers of music andtres leches.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> The opening verse is a set of modified lyrics from the song Passage, which this story is named after, by Vienna Teng.
> 
> Warning from the get-go: there will be depictions of violence against a child, in addition to some implied sexual abuse. I won't ever go into graphic detail about the sexual abuse, but the effects will be there. However, the emphasis of the story is Miguel, and the family at large, healing.

 

_ I died in a basement _

_ Two hours ago _

_ Was unrecognizable when he pulled me from the dark _

_ Not my fault, this debacle _

_ No forgotten pill or bottle _

_ My innocence is all the worse for fears _

_ My killer walks away just fine _

_ Arms wrapped now around his wife _

 

They’d gotten the call at half past noon. Héctor remembered because he’d looked up at the clock and wondered if it was Ceci calling about the dancing shoes she’d ordered. He’d picked it up and instead of a grouchy old woman, it was a weirdly robotic sounding man.

“Is this a member of the Rivera household?”

“Yeah?” Héctor glanced back at Imelda with a frown, jerking his head to get her attention. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Carlos, from the Department of Family Reunions. I’m calling in regards to a recent arrival.”

“Oh.” Héctor tried to think of who it could be. Not Elena, surely; that woman could take down a small army with only her left shoe. Franco maybe? Burto would be his next guess but he was still pretty young… not Enrique or any of the ladies... “Well, uh-”

“There are circumstances regarding the death of the new arrival that require explanation,” Carlos said, cutting Héctor off but also speaking as if to someone very slow. “Please limit the number of family members sent to welcome the new arrival. Please expect to be at the Department of Family Reunions for at least an hour for a briefing on the nature of the new arrival. Please come to the Department of Family Reunions as soon as possible for the briefing. The new arrival’s intake manager will be here until 7:00 p.m. today. Thank you.”

“Wait wait wait,” Héctor said, sharp enough to get the attention of everyone in the room, including several customers. “You can’t just- Who is it?” There was a long pause on the other end, so long that Héctor almost hung up out of sheer frustration.

“The name of the deceased is Miguel Rivera.”

The customers were ushered out after Héctor hung up, and he and Imelda raced to get their coats.

“What could have happened?” Rosita asked, wringing her hands and looking at everyone with wide eyes. “He seemed fine on Dia de los Muertos?”

“A car accident, perhaps?” Coco suggested uncomfortably, handing Héctor his hat. Julio shook his head with a frown.

“Not a lot of cars in Santa Cecilia… Though I suppose it could have been a trip into the city… but sure if there was an accident, he wouldn’t be the only one here.”

“‘Circumstances requiring explanation’...” Victoria mumbled, chewing on the tip of her finger thoughtfully. “What on earth could that mean?”

“Foul play?” Oscar suggested, and the room went silent and still in an instant.

Foul play… No, surely not. That sort of thing didn’t happen in Santa Cecilia, Héctor thought. Sure, he’d been murdered but it happened in Mexico City, because that’s where that kind of thing happened.

“No.” Imelda’s voice was remote but unshakable, like a distant mountain. “It has to be something else. His age, maybe. Perhaps it’s this way for all children.”

“Yes!” Oscar said with relief. “That’s it. Surely that.” And everyone nodded.

But on the trolley to Grand Central Station, Héctor wondered. Neither he nor Imelda spoke on the way there, despite holding each other’s hand with a grip that would be better suited for clinging to a rope thrown from the side of a ship, and it left Héctor with time to think. Granted the only real reunion he’d been to was the one with Coco, which had been tearful but apparently fairly standard, but the call itself seemed… odd. Special, in a bad way. Don’t bring too many people, get here as soon as you can, expect to be here for at least an hour… They hadn’t done that with Coco.

And as he thought about it, he remembered other reunions with children from when he had briefly, briefly been a janitor at the Grand Central Station. Reunions had always been something he’d snuck glances at, his own with Imelda having been… nothing he liked to remember. They were all a little different, but the ones with children were painful in their own special ways. Parents, so much older than the children they’d lost decades before, falling to their knees and hugging tiny skeletons who bawled into their chests. Or children being wrapped up in the arms of family members they’d only heard stories of but more often than not had never even met.

He’d never seen any reunion that didn’t involve as much family as possible. Children seemed especially likely to have everyone who could make it show up: aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, cousins and second cousins and third cousins once removed. Why would Miguel be any different?

“Did any of you have an intake manager?” Héctor asked Imelda as they walked down the street, still holding hands. Imelda turned to look at him.

“Eh?”

“An intake manager. That’s what… the agent, Carlos, he said Miguel had an intake manager.” He frowned at her. “I didn’t have one of those. Coco didn’t. Did any of you?” Imelda thought about it and shook her head.

“No. But it’s probably because he’s a child.”

Maybe. But something about it…

_ Something is wrong. _

The agent behind the counter smiled at them as they walked up, Grand Central Station as golden and busy as ever. Distantly, Héctor was aware of a reunion happening behind him, tearful embraces and laughter.

“Name, please?” The agent asked. She was young-ish and perky; maybe she was new.

“Imelda and Héctor Rivera,” Imelda said. She still hadn’t let go of his hand. “We’re here for Miguel Rivera.” Héctor watched the smile twist and fall from the pretty agent’s face and felt a phantom jerk somewhere below his ribcage, where his stomach might have been.

_ Something is wrong. _

“Please s-sit down,” she stammered, pointing to a row of uncomfortable looking chairs behind them. “There are circumstances regarding the death of the new arrival that require explanation. His intake manager will be with you as soon as possible.”

‘As soon as possible’ ended up meaning something like thirty minutes. Thirty minutes that Héctor, quite frankly, could have done without.

Imelda’s grip on his hand was something just short of absolutely agonizing but he couldn’t imagine his own grip on hers was much more comfortable. They sat quietly in something akin to the eye of a hurricane that didn’t even know it was a hurricane. So many people, agents and travelers and administrative workers, rushing to and fro and somehow they didn’t realize that something was wrong.

Hector was starting to feel like a balloon. Like he was floating. Imelda’s hand was the only thing holding him there, the ache in his fingers from holding on the only thing he was really feeling.

_ Foul play? _

That sort of thing didn’t happen in Santa Cecilia.

_ Maybe it was the chorizo, my friend? _

That sort of thing didn’t happen in Santa Cecilia.

_ There are circumstances regarding the death of the new arrival that require explanation. _

That sort of thing didn’t happen-

“Don’t you dare,” Imelda hissed, jerking Héctor out of his reverie. He turned to stare at her, startled, and saw tears in her eyes. “I can’t do this alone, Héctor. You promised me.  _ You promised _ .”

And he had, hadn’t he? On his birthday, the last day of November, they’d stood and stared out over Rosa Plaza and shared a cigarette, and he’d promised that she wouldn’t have to do anything by herself ever again. That’d he’d help her with everything that came their way, because that’s what husbands do.

He straightened his spine, squared his shoulders.  _ Breathe in, breathe out _ .

_ 1, 2, 3, 3, 2, 1 _

Beside him, Imelda seemed to not so much slump but relax slightly, as if she had put down something very heavy… or someone had started helping her carry it.

When the tall woman in a dark pantsuit walked up to them, it was Héctor who stood first.

“ _ Señor y Señora _ Rivera?” She looked as though she’d passed away in her fifties. She was unusually wigless, her facial markings a glorious riot of soft pinks and golds and bright greens that seemed to sit oddly on her grim expression. “My name is Lydia Posada. I’m Miguel’s intake manager.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Héctor said quietly. Posada nodded.

“If the two of you will follow me, I can explain further in private.”

She led them through a door into a narrow hallway of white-washed walls and unremarkable, blue carpeting. It felt disconnected from the rest of the station; like they’d walked into a different world. Though there were no numbers or markers outside of any of the doors, Posada stopped in front of one and held the door open for them.

Inside was a long conference table buffed to high sheen surrounded by chairs. On it was a pair of blue folders, a manilla envelope, and several bottles of water. Sitting across from the door was two people who stood when Héctor and Imelda entered the room. One was a tragically young woman, late twenties at the latest, with dark hair tied up in a loose bun and markings of mainly red and gold painted along her cheekbones and forehead. She had plaster smeared across her arms and legs, even a patch on her jaw. Someone hit her, Héctor thought, startled, as she smiled tightly at them and nodded.

Next to her was a man Héctor knew fairly well from his time on the wrong side of the law. Captain La Guardia had been Sergeant La Guardia when they’d first met, and somewhere around year forty, he’d become Lieutenant La Guardia. He’d processed Héctor and thrown him into jail more times than Héctor could remember, though at least he hadn’t literally thrown him the way some did. Héctor had seen him a few times since Dia de los Muertos and La Guardia had actually been fairly friendly.

“Not gonna be sneaking across the bridge this year, eh, Rivera?” He’d asked with a laugh. Héctor had chuckled awkwardly.

“I sure hope not.”

There was no laughter on La Guardia’s face now. He nodded to Héctor and Imelda and gestured towards the chairs across from him.

“ _ Buenos tardes _ . Please sit down. This…” He sighed. “It’s not going to be an easy conversation to have, but it’s important that we do this promptly.”

“Miguel’s here,” Imelda said, standing at the door. “Where is he? We need to make sure he’s alright.”

“ _ Señora, _ it’s important that you and your husband understand what’s happened before you see Miguel,” the young woman said. “Please sit. We want you to see Miguel too, and we’ll get through this as quickly as we can. But we can’t let you see him until you do.”

Only Miguel could allow Imelda to bend as swiftly as she did. With a sigh that hissed through clenched teeth, she sat, and Héctor sat beside her. Posada moved to the other side of the table and sat next to La Guardia as he and the other woman took their seats.

“My name is Dr. Isabel Piñeda,” the young woman said. “I’m a therapist who specializes in children who have experienced trauma and violent deaths. I’m going to be working with Agent Posada and your family to make sure that Miguel’s integration into the Land of the Dead is as painless as possible.”

Imelda’s grip on Hector’s hand became so tight that he was sure it broke bones.

“Violent deaths?” Imelda asked. “Miguel…”

“Miguel arrived in the Land of the Dead about two hours ago,” La Guardia said. “The reason it took so long for us to contact you is that when he arrived he was… hysterical. Completely incoherent. In order to avoid causing further trauma, we waited until he was calmer to contact you.”

“What happened?” Héctor couldn’t imagine that they’d know that but he couldn’t not ask. La Guardia reached over and opened a folder, pushing it gently towards them. Héctor pulled it closer with his free hand and looked.

Inside was a collection of news articles, some clipped from the paper and others printed from websites, describing the sudden, mysterious disappearance of Miguel Rivera, age thirteen, from the small town of Santa Cecilia. Nestled in the text were pleas from Enrique, Luisa and Elena for Miguel to come home, or for whoever had taken him to release him. Several articles offered increasingly convoluted theories about what had happened: angry De La Cruz fans were the more popular choice but other, less savory things were posited. At the mention of sex trafficking, Héctor had to make himself stop reading.

“He was missing?” Imelda let go of Hector’s hand and grabbed the pile of papers, rifling through it as if it would have answers rather than more questions. “And no one told us?”

“Most of the time, what news we get from the Land of the Living is centered around new arrivals,” La Guardia explained. “In cases like this, we delve deeper and get as much information as possible.”

“What happened?” Héctor repeated. Without Imelda holding them, his hands began to shake. He folded them together on the table, trying to smother the trembling against the wood.

“About a month ago, Miguel went missing on his way home from school,” Posada said. “And now he’s here. And while he hasn’t been entirely coherent, what he has been saying is… disturbing. It sounds as if whoever kidnapped him had him for this month, and killed him earlier today.”

“What has he been saying?” Imelda asked, and Héctor desperately wished she hadn’t. Thankfully, Dr. Piñeda shook her head and La Guardia said, “I wouldn’t want to comment on that.”

“Miguel’s death was clearly extremely violent,” Dr. Piñeda said. “And what he went through prior to that was incredibly traumatizing. As a result, we can’t allow you to take him home tonight.”

_That_ threw Héctor for a loop.

“What?” Imelda’s tone was dangerously low and cold. It was a testament to the strength of the people across from them that not a one even blinked in the face of it.

“He’s not ready,” Posada said simply. “And neither are you or your family. That’s not a judgement against you, it’s simple fact.”

“Adopting deceased children is never easy,” Dr. Piñeda said before Imelda could do more than open her mouth to retort. “While deceased relatives know them, the children don’t know _you._ Miguel has an advantage in that he’s met all of you before, which is, needless to say, highly unusual. But he’s still only met you once. He’s going from the family he’s known all his life, his mother and father and sister, his _Tíos_ and _Tías_ and cousins and grandparents, to a group of people he largely knows from stories and photos.”

“For children who suffer violence or trauma prior to death, the integration process is longer and more difficult. In addition to phantom pains that all the recently deceased suffer from, violent deaths are frequently accompanied by memory loss, traumatic flashbacks, nightmares, anger, mood swings… it’s especially intense in the weeks following their death, and as a result, we take their transition into the Land of the Dead very seriously and pace it very carefully.”  
“If he’s not coming home with us, where is he going?” Héctor asked.

“There’s a ward for kids who come in like this,” La Guardia explained. “The Department of Deceased Youth supervises it. Kids stay there for a few weeks, maybe a month, and just get used to everything. People like Dr. Piñeda here talk to them, help them process everything, and Agent Posada works with you to make sure everything’s ready for them when they move in.”

“With children like Miguel, the biggest thing is helping them come to terms with their situation and giving them the tools to come to terms with what happened to them before they died,” Dr. Piñeda explained. “That’s what I’ll be doing with him. He’ll have therapy sessions with me, in addition to group therapy sessions with other children. When he moves in with you, he’ll continue to have therapy sessions in addition to family sessions with you and any other caregivers in the home.”

“Will we be able to visit him, at least?” Imelda asked. The sound of her voice made something sharp and splintery jab behind Héctor’s breastbone, and he clenched down on his own hands even harder.

“Of course,” Dr. Piñeda said soothingly. “But who visits him, how often, and for how long will be entirely up to Miguel. Control is something that was taken from him, and giving it back is important.”

“While he’s getting the help he needs, you’ll need to be taking the classes we’ve set up for families taking in traumatized children.” Posada pulled out a pair of brochures and handed them over; Héctor took one, Imelda didn’t. Héctor looked through it with a kind of vague curiosity, taking in title headers like “Safe, Quiet, Secure”, “Flashbacks: Do’s and Don’ts”, and “Establishing and Respecting Boundaries”.

“I understand that the two of you are parents,” Dr. Piñeda said. “And I understand that most of the members of your household are as well. Unfortunately, parenting a traumatized child presents unique challenges. In the long run, it’s best for you and for Miguel if you take all the resources that we can provide.”

“Héctor,” La Guardia said suddenly. Héctor looked up at him, startled. “We’re not… this isn’t us saying you won’t be good for this kid. Honestly. It’s just… things can go bad if we’re not careful. Really bad. Not because anyone’s intentionally hurting anyone but because they just don’t know better.” He ran his hand over his skull with a sigh. “We’re doing this for Miguel, yeah? To make sure he’s okay. It’s not a personal thing towards you or you, Ma’am,” he nodded to Imelda. “It’s about making sure he’s okay.” Héctor nodded slowly, looking back down at the brochure.

_Understanding trauma is the first step toward making sure your child feels safe and loved._

“Can we see him now?” Héctor asked.

\--

The room they took them to reminded Héctor strangely of a doctor’s office waiting room. Plenty of chairs, more than enough chairs, along with a little corner of outdated toys and stuffed animals. Only Posada and Dr. Piñeda went with them; La Guardia tipped his hat to Imelda and shook Héctor’s hand, saying, “If you need anything let me know, eh, _amigo_?”

The room was nearly empty. Sitting in a chair in the back corner was an older man in dress pants and a button down shirt, leaning over and talking to someone tucked under the table.

“Jorge,” Dr. Piñeda said softly, and the man looked up. “The Riveras are here.”

“Ah, hear that, _niño_?” Jorge peered back down beneath the table with a smile. “Looks like your family’s here. Wanna see them?”

Héctor found Imelda’s hand as something that felt terribly similar to heart palpitations started up in the center of his chest.

Slowly, like a cat creeping out into the sun, Miguel shuffled out from beneath the table, and Héctor was struck by how _small_ he was. Miguel had never seemed small before, and the thought of him being so was alien to the point of seeming almost like a betrayal. Miguel was loud and boisterous and full of energy, so much like Imelda in how they both seemed too large for the rooms they were in.

Miguel’s clothing was tattered and filthy, stained with blood and dirt and other things that Héctor didn’t want to think too deeply on. While his bones were pure white with memory, they were chipped and cracked in places, and there was one large fracture on his left femur that made him stumble as he stood up. A crack bisected his left eye socket, making it seem swollen and painful despite being bone. In a contrast that seemed almost grotesque in and of itself, the markings on his face were a collection of colorful swirls of orange, green, red, purple and pink. With another sharp pang somewhere behind his breastbone, Héctor realized Miguel’s markings were so similar to his own that they were almost identical.

“Miguel,” Imelda said, rushing forward. “Oh, _m’ijo!_ ” She fell to her knees and wrapped him up in a hug.

Miguel flinched and pushed her away.

There was a beat of silence so painfully total that Héctor thought maybe time had literally stopped. Then Miguel, who had been standing stock still with eyes wide and wary like a stray cat’s, burst into tears.   
“I’m sorry!” He babbled, not going forward but _back_ , scrambling away from Imelda and flailing his hands out. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Imelda said, as if it didn’t sound as if Miguel would have hurt her less if he’d stabbed her in the stomach. “It’s okay. _M’ijo_ , Miguel, look at me.” Miguel looked up, tears dripping from his cheekbones. “It’s okay.”

“Miguel,” Jorge said, quietly and carefully entering Miguel’s field of vision from the side. “Remember what we talked about before? About breathing? Try to breathe the way we were doing before, okay?”

Héctor watched, that ugly feeling of weightlessness returning as Miguel closed his eyes tight and just _breathed_ for a moment, his hands pressed against his chest as if trying to hold something in. Imelda said nothing, only stayed kneeling just out of arm’s reach, watching. Héctor couldn’t see her expression, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine it. Suddenly, Miguel looked up at Imelda.

“You can send me back,” he whispered, the fear on his face abruptly replaced with a hope so fragile that it made Héctor want to run from the room screaming. “Mama Imelda, you- Papa Héctor! Y-You can send me back! I-I-I gotta go home. Mama needs help with Coco, s-she can walk now and she’s getting into everything s-so, so I gotta get home, ya know?” The smile on his face was thin, sharp, a horrible facsimile of a smile that cut Héctor to the core.

_It’s not supposed to be like this,_ Héctor thought dazedly. _You’re supposed to be old, you’re supposed to be a father, a grandfather, you’re supposed to be someone’s husband-_

“Send me home!” Miguel said, his voice suddenly a whip crack, making Héctor jump. “Whatever you want, it’s fine, it’s-it’s _whatever_ , just send me home!”

“Miguel,” Héctor managed. “Miguel, I _can’t._ ” Miguel stared at him like he hadn’t heard or understood, so he repeated, “Miguel, I _can’t._ You’re not cursed, you’re…” Dead.

“No.” Miguel shook his head, slowly at first then so hard that Héctor could hear his bones rattling from across the room. “No, no, no, no, _no, no, no, no, no-_ ”

“Miguel, come here,” Imelda said, reaching out, but Miguel stomped his foot and screamed, “ _NO!_ You-you sent me back before! Y-You did! S-Stop lying!”

“Miguel!” Imelda said, shocked. Héctor hurried forward, to do what he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t just leave Imelda up there by herself.

“Miguel, listen-” Dr. Piñeda said, approaching alongside Héctor, but Miguel cut her off.

“ _I WANNA GO HOME!_ ” Miguel screamed, stomping his feet, right then left then right again. “ _I don’t wanna be here, I don’t wanna, I wanna go home! Send me home!_ ” He began panting, his breathes coming in rapid wheezes as his hands flew up to clutch his head. Héctor stepped past Imelda, whose hands were up to her mouth in shock, and reached out to Miguel carefully, slowly.

“Miguel?” Héctor whispered. Miguel held his head in his hands, each gasp a soft whine of… something. Pain? Misery? Both? It was hard to tell. “Miguel, are you-?”

“ _It hurts…_ ” Miguel hissed, hunching over almost double. “ _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, why does it still hurt, make it stop hurting-_ ”

“Migue…” Héctor reached out, trying to pull him into a hug, but the moment he made contact Miguel wrenched away.

“Don’t touch me!” He screamed, staring at Héctor as if he was a stranger. “Don’t touch me, don’t, don’t, please don’t, _please-_ ”

Héctor felt someone grip his own shoulder and he flinched away, turning to stare. Posada stood behind him, solemn.

“Come on, he needs to calm down.”

Too stunned to protest, Imelda and Héctor were gently ushered out by the agent as Piñeda and Jorge knelt next to Miguel as he curled into a mewling, boney ball of misery on the floor.

“What…” Imelda whispered as the door shut behind them. “I don’t…”

“It was worse when he first arrived,” Posada said. “He was hitting people, screaming. Actually managed to make a good crack in Isabel’s jaw with a kick.”  
“He’s not…” Héctor tried to remember how to speak. “He’s not a _violent_ kid… He doesn’t- He doesn’t _do_ that…”

“Perhaps not normally, but this isn’t normal,” Posada sighed. “This is trauma, and it’s going to take a long time to heal from. That’s why he can’t go home with you tonight.”

“He’s family,” Imelda protested. Héctor tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat, sat there, festered, died, rotted away. He’s family, but… But…

“I don’t know what to do,” Imelda whispered. Héctor reached out and took her hand. Posada nodded, her expression softening.

“That’s why I’m here.” She smiled, and though it was tired and sad, it was genuine. “I want Miguel to go home with you. I want you all to be happy. And that’s what we’re gonna work towards.”


	2. Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so darn long! There won't be such a big gap for the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> If you want to check out my tumblr, send me messages, etc., my tumblr is wee-chlo.tumblr.com

At first, Miguel couldn’t stop taking himself apart.

It was like a nervous thing. He used to have one of those stupid little spinners; his cousin, Abel, had gotten him one that lit up. But this was different. Kind of.

It was supposed to hurt. If you take your finger off your hand, it was supposed to hurt. But it didn’t hurt. But it was supposed to. _But it didn’t._

None of it seemed real. Miguel couldn’t really remember Grand Central Station; he remembered _some_ stuff that he tried really hard not to think about, but the rest was a blur. He remembered Mama Imelda and Papa Héctor being there and saying some stuff, and then they left. But after that, he didn’t really remember too much. He couldn’t remember how he got the Ward, just that everything hurt for a long time. The worst was in his head, right behind his left eye. His _abuelo_ had migraines sometimes, and _Abuela_ would shoo everyone away and let him have some quiet. She’d explained that sometimes, his head hurt so bad that he couldn’t move, and everything that happened made it hurt worse, _so we have to be quiet and not bother him until he feels better._ Miguel figured that what he’d had was worse, infinitely worse because it hadn’t just been some headache. It had felt like something was _inside_ his skull, rattling around like a ping-pong ball. If he’d been able to move, he’d have clawed his head open then and there.

Then it had passed, and he opened his eyes and sat up, and looked at his hands, and all he’d seen was bone.

He didn’t know what he’d done. He couldn’t remember. Mama Imelda hadn’t had any conditions for her blessing, he hadn’t done anything wrong that he could remember but he must have, he must have because he was _here,_ in the Land of the Dead, surrounded by skeletons.

For a while, things still hurt. His leg hurt, so the nurses there had wrapped it up in tape and plaster. His arm had hurt, so they’d wrapped that up too, and he was wheeled around in a chair like Mama Coco had been. The Ward had a name, but Miguel couldn’t be bothered to remember it and everyone else just called it the Ward too. There were other kids there, some of them nice and some of them not so nice, but all of them were kind of like him: quiet, mostly, with broken bones and weird gaits and funny little twitches. Sometimes they had family come in to eat with them or play, but Miguel’s family didn’t visit. They weren’t allowed.

“Too early for that, _Señor_ ,” Rodrigo said, pushing him to his appointment with Dr. Piñeda. “Give yourself some time to get used to things.”

Dr. Piñeda was nice. She told him to call her Isabel and for a while, she didn’t ask him about anything big or serious. She asked him what sports he liked, and if he liked video games. She asked what his favorite foods were and his favorite singers. When he said he liked Selena, she brought him a little cd player and some albums.

Then one day, she tapped her pen on her notebook with a thoughtful frown and asked, “Miguel, what do you remember?”

“I don’t remember anything,” Miguel said, startled. Isabel nodded slowly, smiling after a bit.

“Okay.”

So, Isabel was nice. Rodrigo was okay, even if the way he smelled sometimes made Miguel queasy for some reason. He didn’t smell _bad_ , just… something.

Still, he was nice. He didn’t yell when Miguel turned his own hand into a little pile of bones, just sighed and put him back together.

“You can’t keep doing this, _muchacho_ ,” he said gently. Rodrigo reminded him a little of Papa Hector, even though he looked like he’d been older when he died. The first time he’d found Miguel with his bones scattered on the floor like toys, he’d kinda freaked out but after the third time, he’d just sighed, “You can’t keep doing this.”

Miguel kept doing it. He couldn’t stop. It was like a nervous thing.

_It was supposed to hurt._

Miguel watched him put bones back where they belonged, arm bones and wrist, hand and fingers, with a kind of detached fascination.

“Why?” Miguel asked, his voice sounding weird to his own… ears? “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Not right now, but if you keep messing with it, it can,” Rodrigo explained. “They might start falling off on their own. Your hands are bad off enough without you picking at them.”

“Papa Héctor just jumped off a staircase once,” Miguel said, flexing his hand experimentally. No pain, but they were slow to function, twitching and shaking a little. “Just put himself back together afterward.”

“Your Papa Héctor sounds like a card,” Rodrigo said. “But don’t do that.”

The breaks in his bones didn’t exactly _heal,_ but they stopped hurting, more or less. Miguel’s leg stopped giving out on him, and he could lift his arm above his head. He could walk again, which was nice, but sometimes he still needed to be wheeled around and most times he needed a cane, like an old man. He could go outside, for what it was worth, but only at specific times. The days seemed to run together with nurses directing him this way or that: to meals that seemed weirdly few and far between, to classes about history stuff he didn’t care about, to sessions with Isabel.

Sometimes, Rodrigo brought letters in. There were always at least six of them, one from each of the family, sometimes more. Miguel didn’t open any. At first, he was too angry. He tore the first two or three batches up, he’d been so angry. He’d still been in the wheelchair then but if he hadn’t been, he’d have stomped on them too.

They could have sent him home. They _should_ have sent him home. He remembered Papa Héctor and Mama Imelda being in Grand Central Station, he remembered them, they could have sent him home and they _didn’t._

“Have you thought about when you’d like to set up visitation hours, Miguel?” Isabel asked, and Miguel scowled.

“I don’t want to see them,” he said. “They didn’t send me home!” Isabel tilted her head with a frown. “A-and, and Mama Imelda said there weren’t any conditions! When they sent me home last time, she said the blessing didn’t have any. But here I am! And they didn’t send me back! So, so, no. No, I don’t wanna see them!” Miguel’s hands twitched, and he viciously forced down the urged to start yanking his hands apart. Isabel wouldn’t like it if he did; he’d do it later, in his room.

“Miguel…” Isabel said gently. “Miguel, there was nothing your family could do.”

“Sure they could!” Miguel insisted. “They did it before! They sent me home!”

“When you were _cursed._ ”  
“Right!”

Isabel looked at him in silence for a long time, chewing on her lower… lip, or whatever you would call it, Miguel didn’t know anymore.

“Miguel, what do you remember?” Isabel asked.

“I don’t remember anything,” Miguel said automatically. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Later that night, he picked his hand apart bone by bone. He’d seen Rodrigo put it back together enough that he figured he could do it himself anyway, even in the dimness of his nightlight. He couldn’t fall asleep in the dark anymore, and he didn’t know why. His hands didn’t move right anymore, and he didn’t know why. Sometimes his head hurt so bad he couldn’t move, and he didn’t know why.

He was here and not home, and he didn’t know _why_.

As he pulled a little bone in his wrist free with vicious abandon, the kid in the room next to his turned on the radio. Miguel scowled but couldn’t do what he usually did and hit the wall to get him to turn it off. He felt so _angry_ all the time too, he realized with a twist in his stomach. Angry and _mean._ He set to work on his other hand with his teeth as the muffled sounds of _Un Poco Loco_ reverberated through the thin wall, just blocked enough to make De La Cruz unintelligible. As he dislodged a finger joint, he realized that the sound of it, that _specific_ sound, was familiar. Where had he heard it… Where…

_He could hear it through the ceiling, along with their footsteps on the floorboards, like a mockery. He couldn’t tell, but he thought maybe they were dancing upstairs._

_a hand in his hair, slamming his head into the ground, his mouth tasted like metal but there was so much tape wrapped around his face that he couldn’t spit_

_He couldn’t feel his fingers; they’d been tied behind his back for so long that they couldn’t even move. They felt cold and funny and swollen._

_i wanna go home, i wanna go home, i wanna go home_

Miguel woke up screaming, but so many kids in the Ward did that that no one came to check on him.

“I’m not cursed, am I?” He asked Rodrigo that morning after the nurse finished putting his hands back together. He stared at his hands, resisting the urge to start picking and pulling.

“What do you mean, kid?”

“Am I dead?”

Rodrigo blinked at him.

“I mean… yeah, kid. Yeah.”

It was funny. Maybe they’d just thought he knew. But he thought…

“Last time, they sent me home,” he said, his voice stupidly small. “They just… they gave me their blessing and I went home.”

“You were cursed last time, kid,” Rodrigo said kindly, and Miguel _really_ wished he didn’t remind him so much of Papa Héctor because it was starting to push him close to tears with how much it _hurt_. “This is different.”

“I want my family,” Miguel whispered, pulling his legs to his chest and curling up into a ball on the bed. The blankets were scratchy and rough against his cheekbone, quickly becoming damp with tears. “I wanna go home.”

“I’ll talk to Isabel about setting up some visiting hours, okay?”

The next week, Papa Héctor and Mama Imelda were scheduled to visit on Monday, an hour after lunch. The actual visit would only be a half hour rather than the usual hour, probably because Isabel saw how terrified Miguel was.

“I didn’t read their letters!” Miguel sobbed during his appointment the day before the visit. “I tore them up! What if they’re mad? W-what if they decide they don’t want me anymore?”

“Miguel, they’re your family,” Isabel said. “They’re your family and they love you. They’ve been checking to see if they can visit almost every day since you got here. Why wouldn’t they want you to live with them?”  
“I tore up their letters,” Miguel insisted. Isabel shrugged with a smile.

“They don’t know that. You wouldn’t even need to tell them that.”

“I hit you,” Miguel whispered. Isabel’s smile grew gentler.

“You were scared and confused, and I’ve forgiven you. No one’s holding that against you.”

Miguel said nothing.

Because really, what did Isabel know? Isabel didn’t know Mama Imelda, who spent decades insisting no music be played at all in the home just because Hector left and happened to be a musician. She didn’t know Héctor, who probably had a hard enough time without having to deal with Miguel.

She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything.

Still, Miguel found himself in the waiting room, staring at the front door, the seconds ticking by with incredible slowness. Miguel resisted the urge to start pulling at his fingers, knowing that the nurses and the receptionist had long since been notified of his habits and would know to go over and make him stop. The thought of Héctor or Mama Imelda knowing what he did, the thought of how disappointed they’d be if they knew how stupid he acted sometimes, made him sick.

The waiting room was decently sized, a combination of a place for kids to wait for adults, adults to wait for kids, and for them to spend time together. There was a tv playing old kid shows from the Land of the Living, and toys but mostly for kids like his baby _primos_ , Benny and Manny. Otherwise, there was mostly just tables for people to sit around. It was quiet, Mondays were busy but not in the evening, when Miguel had decided his visit time would be. He didn’t know _why_ he’d chosen the evening, it just seemed like a good idea.

It was good that no one was there to see him staring at himself in the mirror.

There weren’t mirrors in the dorms. Miguel hadn’t realized until he caught a glimpse of himself in the one on the far wall of the waiting room that he hadn’t actually _seen_ himself since he’d come here. He’d seen his hands, his feet, most of his body. But not his face.

It was hard to look away from it. The sight of his own skull. He’d read somewhere that humans had an instinctive, gut reaction to seeing a brain because it was your own brain freaking out about seeing a brain, because you weren’t _supposed_ to see your brain, or any brain, because they’re supposed to be safe in your skull. He wondered why there wasn’t the same reaction to seeing your skull.

Who was he looking at? It wasn’t him. This dead kid with weirdly bright colors painted on his face, with a disarrayed mop of dark hair on his skull, it wasn’t him. Experimentally, he lifted an arm. The skeleton in the mirror lifted his arm too. The skeleton’s expression was weirdly blank, oddly detached.

Miguel wasn’t here. Papa Héctor and Mama Imelda would come in and he wouldn’t even be here, and they’d be so irritated, so frustrated, they’d come all this way and here was this _stranger_ instead, who’d ripped up their letters and yelled at them and pushed them and hit people. They wanted Miguel, not… this. Not this.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to call it off. Maybe he could spare them the trouble and they’d just forget about him and he wouldn’t have to deal with it, he’d just stay here _forever_ until they forgot, and people back home forgot, and he’d just drift away like dust and-

And then they walked in.

They didn’t see him at first, going to the receptionist desk to check in. They looked nearly the same as the last time he’d seen them a little over a year before. Mama Imelda was wearing a different dress and different colored ribbons braided into her hair, but the biggest difference was Papa Héctor, who looked cleaner and better put together. He walked straighter now, and all his bones seemed to move in tandem rather than with little groups trying to catch up. The last time he’d seen Papa Héctor, he’d been falling apart under his hands, shivering and threatening to disappear forever. The last time...

Unbidden, the memory of Grand Central Station came back, or at least parts of it. Miguel still couldn’t remember all of it, but he remembered shoving, yelling, screaming. Héctor had stared at him, eyes wide, shocked, hurt…

_They’re your family and they love you._

_They love Miguel but Miguel’s not here, Miguel’s gone, and they don’t even know it yet but when they do..._

Papa Héctor turned, saw him, beamed. “Ey, _chamaco_!”

Miguel bolted.

Down the hall, up a flight of stairs, down another hall, back to his room. He thought he heard Rodrigo call after him, he _definitely_ heard Mama Imelda call after him, but it wasn’t until he’d flung the door to his room open that his leg reminded him of the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be _running._ With an ugly wrench of pain, it simply gave out, and he tumbled to the floor.

_they’re coming, they’re coming, they’re coming_

Frantic, desperate, he dragged himself under the bed and hid.

He didn’t know how it could feel like his heart was pounding when he didn’t even have one, but there it was. He didn’t know how it could feel like he couldn’t _breathe_ when he didn’t have to breathe, but there it was. He didn’t know why pain was ripping up from his left leg seemingly through to his spine, but it was horrible. He covered his mouth with his stupid, twitchy, useless hands to muffle the way his breathes squeaked out of him.

There was a soft knock at the door. Then it opened.

Héctor had shoes now, Miguel noticed distantly. Wingtips, kinda scuffed up but generally well-cared for. Mama Imelda’s shoes were the same smart, shiny heeled boots she’d worn before. Rodrigo’s sneakers followed in after them.

“Hm. Well, look, if he’s not comfortable with it, you might have to head out, yeah?” Rodrigo sighed. “It’s uh… you know, it’s nothing against you or anything, it’s just-”

“Right, right…” Héctor said vaguely, foot tapping. “Looked like he came up here…”

“Might have gone to someone else’s room, though he doesn’t, uh…” Rodrigo coughed uncomfortably. “Doesn’t really have anyone here he’d bunk with, I guess?”

“Are these his sheets?” Mama Imelda sounded appalled. “Surely there are better than this? Look at it! It’s in tatters!”

“You can start sending or bringing things in now if you want,” Rodrigo replied. “Those are just the sheets we give him, but he can have some from home too.”

“We’ll bring some next time, I think,” Mama Imelda said firmly. “Are there any restrictions, or…?”

“Nothing sharp, uh, nothing with violent imagery, nothing with vulgarity…”

As Rodrigo prattled on, Miguel watched Héctor and Mama Imelda’s shoes as they moved around the room. He didn’t know what they were doing; it wasn’t like there was anything in the room itself. Just a bed with, as Mama Imelda had noticed, drab and scratchy sheets and blankets. A dresser, a desk with a plain lamp on it, a chair. A nightstand with another lamp on it and a cheap digital clock. The walls were white, the window was small, there was nothing to see, what were they looking for, why were they wandering around, _what else was there?_

Héctor sat down on the bed and Miguel let out a squeak of surprise as the springs descended towards him sharply. The room went silent.

Héctor got off the bed slowly as Rodrigo knelt and peered under it, smiling.

“Oh, dang, kid, I didn’t even think of that. Guess we’re the losers here, huh?” Miguel’s fingers tightened around his own face, he could hear his bones rattling as he shook. “You still up for this? It’s okay if you’re not, they can come back some other time.” Miguel didn’t know what to say. He glanced over at Papa Héctor’s feet, then over at Mama Imelda’s. They hadn’t moved.

“Do you want to do this another time?” Rodrigo asked simply.

They were right there. _They were right there_. They hadn’t left, they didn’t even sound angry, _they were right there._

Miguel shook his head. Rodrigo smiled.

“Okay. You want me to stick around?” Miguel shook his head again, and Rodrigo nodded. “Okay. I’ll be back when the half hour is up, alrighty?” Miguel nodded, and Rodrigo stood. “Looks like it’s okay. Just, uh… don’t push too hard. Don’t be too loud. Don’t try to make him come out. Uh… and if you need anything, I’m right down the hall, okay?”

“Right.” Héctor’s voice sounded weird, distant.

“Thank you,” Imelda said.

Rodrigo left, and Miguel was alone with them.

Papa Héctor knelt and peered under. His hat was off, and up close Miguel could see just how bright his face markings were. The paint wasn’t chipped, and the colors were vivid and shiny. His bones weren’t that faded yellow anymore either. He was remembered now, like Mama Imelda and the others.

He grinned at Miguel, but the boy could see tinges of concern at the edges, even nervousness. Was he scared of Miguel? Had Miguel hurt him?

“Miguel,” Papa Héctor said. “What are you doing under there?”

He honestly didn’t know. It just felt… safer there.

He’d yelled at Mama Imelda. He’d pushed her. He remembered Papa Héctor having an expression on his face like Miguel had hit him, but Miguel couldn’t remember if he _had._ He was so angry now, and so _mean…_ He’d torn up their letters, he’d refused to see them, now he wasn’t even coming out from under the stupid bed, why would they want to see him, why were they even here, they must be so _angry-_

“Will you come out?” Mama Imelda asked. Miguel couldn’t even bring himself to respond. It felt like if he tried, he’d just start screaming, there was just so _much._

“Okay,” Papa Héctor said briskly. He shifted and sat down on the floor next to the bed with a clatter of bones and held a hand up for Mama Imelda. Miguel watched, wide-eyed, as Mama Imelda slowly sat on the floor next to him.

“So,” Papa Héctor said cheerfully. “Bet you’ll never guess what Victoria managed to do yesterday.”

“Oh, don’t tell him _that,_ ” Mama Imelda groaned, but Papa Héctor kept going regardless.

“So here I was thinking that the people in the Rivera house can cook, right? Like, it seemed like a reasonable assumption.”

Papa Héctor did most of the talking, with Mama Imelda either chiding him or providing deadpan observations to his more fanciful tales. They didn’t ask him to come out again. They didn’t try to grab him, or tell him to stop being so stupid, or mention how badly he was treating them for not trusting them and just coming out from under the stupid bed. Miguel kept waiting for it, waiting for them to realize that this was stupid and not worth the time, but they never did.

Slowly, slowly, the tight feeling in his chest eased, and his breathing slowed down, and he just… relaxed a little as Papa Héctor went into a very animated description of Mama Coco letting him wheel down a steep hill by the Rivera house because ‘we thought it’d be funny’.

Then Rodrigo was knocking quietly at the door and letting them know that time was up.

Papa Héctor stood with a grunt of effort, but Mama Imelda leaned over for the first time. Their eyes met, and she smiled at him and reached under, tapping the floor between them once, twice, three times.

“ _Te quiero,_ Migue,” she whispered. “We’ll see you next time, okay?” Miguel swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and nodded.

Papa Julio and Mama Coco came next, loaded down with new blankets and sheets and pictures and other things from the Rivera house. Miguel wished he could make himself run over to Mama Coco, but instead he pressed himself farther back under the bed.

“Miguelito?” Papa Julio put the stuff down on the bed and seemed to look around. “Did we miss him?” Mama Coco said nothing, but Papa Julio gasped. “Oh, eh, hehe. Right.” He knelt with a soft grunt of difficulty and peered under the bed. “There you are, _m’ijo_! You’re so quiet down there!” Papa Julio looked the same as ever, beaming at him and reaching under to pass Miguel something. If he noticed Miguel’s flinch, he didn’t mention it. “Dr. Piñeda mentioned you weren’t eating much so Rosita made you something special.”

The smell of sugar and bread made Miguel’s mouth water. The _pan dulce_ was still soft and fresh as he started to munch on it, Papa Julio nodding approvingly.

“Good, good. Everyone sent some things for you. Mama Imelda said the sheets here were _basura_ so there are some new ones here. Oscar and Felipe sent, eh… Something… What is this, _mi vida?_ ”

“Silly putty,” she said as she pulled the chair out from beneath his desk and sat down.

“Oh, right right. Silly putty. Seems a little dangerous for skeletons but they seem to like it well enough. Rosita sent the bread… oh, Victoria sent this,” he leaned down again and tucked something else underneath the bed. Miguel waited for him to stand back up before he reached out and took it: it was a soft, threadbare thing, a stuffed toy that he couldn’t even begin to identify, decently sized and obviously stitched back together countless times over.

“That used to be Victoria’s,” Mama Coco said, and Miguel thought he heard her knitting needles clicking together, insectile and oddly soothing. “Remember, Julio? She used to be small enough to be able to curl up under it.”

“I remember,” Papa Julio chuckled. “She used to think there was something under her bed, so she’d hide under it. Said it kept her safe.” Miguel held it to his chest experimentally; it was still very soft, it’s arms seeming to wrap around him automatically due to the stitching. “Maybe it’ll keep you safe, eh, Miguelito?”

After they left, he made his bed with the new sheets and blankets. They were all in blues and greys, and they seemed impossibly soft compared to the sheets and blankets he threw in a bundle on the floor.

Any other day, any other time, he’d have scoffed at the stuffed animal as something for babies. But here and now, it was different. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. He felt like someone smaller and weaker, a stranger.

He held the little thing close at night, pressing his face into the fabric and inhaling the scents embedded in it, some familiar and some not so much. Leather, a weird perfume, and a laundry detergent he didn’t recognize but still smelled nice.

The nightmares got more frequent and more vivid, but at least when he woke up afterward, there was something to hold onto.

Tía Victoria and Tía Rosita visited the week after, with Miguel having the weekend to breathe. Tía Rosita brought _tres leches_ , gamely tucking under the bed to him as Tía Victoria unloaded another bag of gifts and knick-knacks.

“They’ve got us doing classes, _cariño,_ ” Tía Rosita burbled, her high voice filling the room and dominating it effortlessly. “We’re learning all kinds of things so that you’ll be okay when you come home. So many things you just don’t think about until someone points it out!”

“Like volume?” Tía Victoria suggested, deadpan, and Miguel had to stifle a laugh.

Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe brought even more things, but not photos like Tía Rosita or toys like Tía Victoria or sheets like Mama Imelda. They brought funny little fidgets, stress balls, clickers, a thousand weird little things for Miguel to fiddle with.

“It’s all about finding the right one!” Tío Oscar said sagely.

“I like the silly putty myself,” Tío Felipe said.

“But it can get stuck in your joints,” Tío Oscar finished.

“Maybe the cube? That one’s nice!”

Visits started being longer. Miguel graduated from hiding under the bed to simply wrapping himself in every blanket he could, like a den. Papa Héctor had beamed the first time he saw it.

“You are the blanket guardian,” he said solemnly, and Miguel giggled weakly.

“Quiver before me.”

“It’s _insufferable,_ ” Mama Imelda groaned, putting down a bag full of something that filled the room with scents that made Miguel feel abruptly starving. “Between him and Rosita… something must be done.”

“Vines are important pieces of modern pop culture, ‘melda,” Papa Héctor said briskly. “I didn’t get to be embarrassing for Coco; it’s my time to shine.” Mama Imelda rolled her eyes as Papa Héctor sat next to Miguel on the bed with a smile. “How’ve you been, _chamaco_? Anything interesting happen while we were out?” Miguel burrowed into his blankets a little more deeply and shook his head. “You know, we finished up our classes last week. They’re going to start taking a look at the house to see if it’s ready for you. You ready to check out your new digs?”

Miguel started, his chest tightening painfully, holding Tía Victoria’s stuffed animal closer. Papa Héctor’s grin faltered and Miguel had to look away from it before it made him cry.

He couldn’t even be outside of these stupid blankets around them. How could he possibly _leave_ the Ward? The thought made him queasy and he could sense their disappointment. They’d expected him to be excited and he _wanted_ to be, he knew he _should_ be, but somehow, he… wasn’t. He was terrified. He wasn’t himself anymore, he wasn’t _Miguel_ , he was going to go there and disappoint them, and they were going to decide that they didn’t want him anymore, that it was too hard, that he was too angry and loud and mean and hard to please and they’d send him back here and stop visiting and-

“Miguel, look at me.” Mama Imelda’s voice cut through the fog of panic, and Miguel became aware of light pressure around his shoulders, of the fact that his breaths were coming out in sharp, wheezy little gasps. Papa Héctor had moved to carefully, carefully put his arm around him, just light enough not to make him feel trapped. Mama Imelda was sitting and looking at him frankly. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready,” she said. “And that’s fine. But we’re always going to be ready for _you_ , alright?” Miguel swallowed hard and nodded, feeling the tears pool over. “Take your time. There’s no rush. We’ll be ready for you whenever you’re ready for us.” She smiled gently enough to make Miguel feel like his ribs were breaking. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered, and Héctor gave his shoulders a little squeeze before letting go.

“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that right now,” Héctor said. “Hey, maybe next time I bring my guitar, eh? Imelda and I can practice some songs with you?” Miguel smiled tremulously.

“That sounds cool.” Héctor nodded.  
“Great! I’ll just, uh… probably have to ask Piñeda first… Never know what they think can be used as a weapon around here.” He shook his head, mystified. “I guess you could club someone with it…”

“Enough, Hector,” Mama Imelda said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Miguel burrowed a little farther down to hide the giggle that threatened to bubble up into a sob.

Héctor and Mama Imelda talked for a while longer, mostly about things happening at the house: the big shoe order that had just come in; Tía Victoria’s birthday coming up; Mama Coco and Papa Julio’s anniversary, the first one they’d spent together in almost twenty years. When Rodrigo came to let them know that the visiting hour was up, Miguel wished he could hug them. He wanted to. He really did. His hands tightened as much as they could, clutching at the blankets around him as Papa Héctor and Mama Imelda got up.

“‘Ey, c _hamaco_ ,” Hector said, catching Miguel’s attention. Papa Héctor smiled at him more gently than before. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Miguel whispered. Héctor grinned like Miguel had given him the sun, and Miguel heard him whistling as he and Mama Imelda walked down the hallway, back towards the waiting room.


	3. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly significant flashback in this one.
> 
> EDIT: Forgot because I am a fool: Props to http://humanityinahandbag.tumblr.com/, my beta!

“So, if you feel uncomfortable, what do you do?” Isabel asked.  
  
“Tell you or _Señora_ Posada or whoever,” Miguel intoned, holding Victoria’s stuffed animal to his chest in a death grip.  
  
“If there’s something that needs to change, what do you do?” Isabel asked.  
  
“Tell you or _Señora_ Posada or whoever,” Miguel repeated.  
  
“If you want to go home early, what do you do?” Isabel asked.  
  
“Tell you or _Señora_ Posada or whoever.” He’d said it so much that the words had lost any real meaning. Isabel nodded.  
  
“Okay. Good.” She turned from the passenger’s seat of the van and looked him in the eye. “What’s your number?” Miguel thought about it.  
  
“Seven.”  
  
“Still good for heading over there? We can still turn around.” Miguel shook his head.  
  
“No, I… I wanna see my family.”  
  
“So do I,” Posada said from the driver’s seat. “Should be interesting.”  
  
“Don’t scare them, Lydia,” Isabel chided, and Posada rolled her eyes.  
  
“I’m not scary.”  
  
She could be, but Miguel didn’t think it would be very polite to say as much. Posada was really nice to him, and seemed to like Isabel, but he could tell she made Papa Héctor and Mama Imelda nervous. Posada didn’t smile much, and didn’t laugh at all that he could tell, but she always had candy in her purse and never made Miguel feel stupid. He liked her.  
  
In fact, he was really glad that she was coming on the visit along with Isabel. He’d thought it would just be him and his family the whole time, which he knew shouldn’t make him nervous but still did. But Isabel had told him the week before that Posada would be there for every visit, and Isabel would be there for the first one and the last one.  
  
“In case you get overwhelmed,” she explained. “If you don’t need me, that’s great. If you do, then I’ll be there. And _Señora_ Posada will be there to take notes and let your family know what to fix or work on for you to have the best transition possible.”  
  
The car ride to the Rivera house was pretty long but weirdly scenic. Miguel had thought only train cars connected the towers in the Land of the Dead, but there were bridges and streets for cars to drive on too, they were just very narrow and a little rickety. They’d started fairly high, but ended up going two towers over before beginning a slow descent into cobblestone streets and brightly painted buildings. The plazas went from having streetlights like the way he remembered them to oil lamps, power stations to laundry lines. With wide eyes, Miguel watched as seemed to literally go back in time.  
  
“There it is,” Isabel said. “Oh, that looks lovely!” Miguel’s fingers twitched around the toy in his arms uselessly, trying to tighten and failing. The urge to rip them apart in frustration was almost too much to ignore, but that would make this whole day even worse. He scrunched down into the seat, not daring to look outside for fear of meeting someone’s eyes.  
  
The van came to a stop and Isabel rolled down her window.  
  
“ _Buenos tardes_! Everything’s still good for today on your end, I’m assuming?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Mama Imelda said. “Is Miguel…?”  
  
“He’s here.” Isabel turned to look at him and smiled. “Ready?” Miguel took a deep breath and peered out the passenger window.  
  
Héctor looked so painfully uncomfortable that Miguel almost laughed. Mama Imelda looked immaculate, the way she always did, and Mama Coco and Papa Julio were dressed the way they always were, with Mama Coco in her summer dress and shawl and Papa Julio in his checkered shirt and jeans. Héctor, on the other hand, was dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks. He didn’t have his hat, he didn’t have his vest. The whole thing made him seem smaller, younger. Like he was a teenager dressed up for a family picture.  
  
Miguel hunched back down in the seat, covering his face with his hands. At some point, the giggles turned into something dangerously close to sobs.  
  
“Wrong house,” he said.  
  
“What?” Posada sounded different when she was baffled.  
  
“Wrong house,” he repeated from behind his fingers. “Look. That isn’t Papa Héctor. Papa Héctor doesn’t wear shirts.”  
  
Isabel snorted so loudly that it broke Miguel’s reverie, and when he looked up, she was hunched over in the front seat, laughing.  
  
“It’s not that funny!” He complained, even though his own mouth was twitching up.  
  
“He does look strange,” Posada agreed. “But let’s give it the benefit of the doubt.” She gave him a smile so minuscule that it might have been his imagination. “Ready to go out there, _muchacho_?” Miguel took a deep breath, in and out, and nodded.  
  
It still felt strange stepping out into the sun in the Land of the Dead. It wasn’t _quite_ as hot as in Mexico, not _quite_ as bright. It was late afternoon, so the street still had people milling about, skeletons going to and from work or shopping. A few walked past him into the store, giving everyone a wave or a tip of the hat as they went. They didn’t matter, not really. They were just noise, background chatter to the relentless cacophony of nerves that was rattling around in Miguel’s skull as he looked at the family standing outside waiting for him.  
  
Mama Coco stepped forward first, beaming.  
  
“It’s good to see you outside, _m’ijo_ ,” she said warmly. “How are you?”  
  
“O-okay.” Miguel managed something he thought might be close enough to a smile to suffice.  
  
“Got a surprise for you,” Papa Julio put in. “Don’t worry, it’s a good one!”  
  
“Oh?” Miguel swallowed hard, but before Isabel could do more than take a step forward and say, “I don’t know if-”, a sharp bark came from the gate behind them.  
  
“Dante!” For the first time in what felt like forever, all the tension left Miguel in an instant as he rushed forward, arms outstretched as the alebrije bounded up to him, tongue lolling with joy. He knelt and let Dante slobber and yip at him affectionately.  
  
“He’s been waiting for you since you got here,” Papa Héctor said. “Wasn’t sure you could have alebrije in the Ward…?”  
  
“There’s some protocol involved, but we can definitely look into it,” Isabel said, relaxing. “Seems like it’d be helpful, for sure.”  
  
A strangely delicate little breath ruffled Miguel’s hair, and he looked up to see Pepita’s highlighter bright face inches away. He was barely able to process her presence before she licked him from chin to forehead with a tongue that covered his whole face in one great lick. He giggled and scrubbed at his face.  
  
“Hey, Pepita!” The great cat alebrije purred and nuzzled him, pressing her head to his chest with surprising care.  
  
“Victoria, Rosita, Oscar and Felipe are in the store,” Mama Imelda explained. “We didn’t want it to be too crowded.”  
  
“We drew straws,” Héctor supplied. “They lost.” Mama Imelda’s smile grew a little tenser and she nudged him irritably.  
  
“That’s fine,” Isabel said with a smile. “It’s good to ease into things. Maybe a quick tour then?”  
  
Isabel nodded enthusiastically while Posada readied a clipboard and pen. Dante pressed against Miguel’s leg as he followed close behind Isabel, staring.  
  
Once the shock of seeing Héctor in a shirt passed, the nostalgia of the Rivera home left Miguel a little light-headed. The store was attached, just like in the Land of the Living. There was a big gate that led into the courtyard, just like in the Land of the Living. The words “Rivera Familia de Zapateros” was painted proudly on the side, with that same little shoe-shaped sign hanging over the storefront.  
  
But everything was brighter. The gate was painted bright blue; the walls were bright yellows and oranges, lights and flowers hung from the walls and the rafters.  
  
The courtyard was a little smaller than the one back home, but instead of buildings and additions being built out, everything appeared to have been built up. On the same side as the storefront, Miguel could see the kitchen through the big open windows and a few others rooms, but on the opposite side was a two-story tower of rooms.  
  
“That’s where we’ve made additions for the, well… additions,” Imelda said, appearing desperately uncomfortable with the pun. “Victoria, Rosita, Oscar and Felipe are on the second floor. Julio, Coco, and Héctor are on the bottom floor. Miguel’s room will be next to Julio and Coco’s. Mine is above the store, here.” She gestured to a wooden staircase that led up to a rust-red door above the store. Isabel nodded and Posada made notes.  
  
“This is the store,” Papa Julio took up the tour with a sort of nervous cheer, opening the door for everyone as they went in. It was a little bit bigger than the one back home, but just as stuffed with everything they needed: leather, string, buttons, sewing machines, laces, eyes and an anvil, and soles hanging from the rafters until needed. High above, Miguel could see part of the wall for Imelda’s room, with a big window that looked over the store. The place smelled of leather and polish and wood, and it sent another pang of painful nostalgia through Miguel. Dante pressed up against his side comfortingly as tears threatened to push through.  
  
“Miguel!” _Tía_ Rosita chirped from her place at the storefront. “So nice to see you, _m’ijo_! _Hola, Señora,_ Posada, Isabel!”  
  
“Will you be here long?” _Tío_ Oscar asked, glancing down at his half-finished shoe. “We’re closing up in an hour or so…”  
  
“The plan is three hours total, but it’s up to Miguel, really,” Isabel explained, and everyone nodded emphatically.  
  
“Of course, of course!” _Tío_ Oscar said, leaning over from his seat to catch Miguel’s eye. “How are you, Miguel?” Miguel caught the ear of _Tía_ Victoria’s stuffed animal between his thumb and forefinger and started rubbing it between his fingertips.  
  
“Okay,” he managed. “You?”  
  
“We’re good!” _Tío_ Oscar said.  
  
“Got a big order,” _Tío_ Felipe put in.  
  
“Mostly dancing shoes,” _Tío_ Oscar explained.  
  
“But they need it for _Señora_ Kahlo’s big show this weekend!” Tío Felipe said.  
  
“So it’s all hands on deck!” _Tío_ Oscar said. Before Tío Felipe could do more than take a breath to continue, _Tía_ Victoria threw her hands up in the air.  
  
“If it’s exhausting for _us_ , I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like for Miguel to have you two talk so fast,” she said before looking over at Miguel and rolling her eyes. _Tío_ Oscar and Felipe shrugged apologetically, and Miguel hoped the smile on his face seemed genuine.  
  
“We’re discussing Miguel helping out in the store when he moves in, the way he did in Santa Cecilia,” Papa Julio said with a chuckle as the rest went back to work. “Seems like it would be a good bit of, eh… structure for him.” Isabel nodded enthusiastically while Posada took more notes.  
  
“Absolutely!” Isabel agreed. Miguel couldn’t quite manage to keep a groan of disappointment from escaping. Mama Imelda raised an eyebrow, but her disapproval was redirected to Héctor in record time when he and Mama Coco both snickered.  
  
“Do you help in the store as well, Héctor?” Posada asked, speaking for the first time since they rolled up. Héctor flinched as if she’d been a striking snake.  
  
“Uh, no, no…” Héctor stammered. “I, uh… tried, but… Not really, um…” He rubbed his arm awkwardly. “Not good at it.”  
  
“He put a sole for a right shoe into the left shoe,” _Tío_ Oscar spoke up. “And then tried to flip the sole for the left shoe upside down so that it would fit.” Isabel choked and suddenly seemed to find the soles hanging from the rafters exceedingly interesting as Posada wrote down another note.  
  
“Yeah, thanks, Oscar,” Héctor grumbled. Miguel gave his toy a squeeze and consoled himself with the fact that at least Héctor seemed to have had about as much fun in the store as he did most days.  
  
“So, what do you do then, Héctor?” Posada asked. “Generally speaking?” Héctor froze, shoulders hunching forward and eyes wide, like he was staring down the barrel of a gun.  
  
_Wanna see if today’s your lucky day, kid?_  
  
“You play now, right?” Isabel said, jolting Miguel and Héctor both out of their reveries. “I heard you in Rosa Plaza a few days ago.”  
  
“Oh, right!” Héctor said, the tension leaving in an abrupt wave. “Yeah, sorry, I, uh… right, yes. I play at _bailes_ , some plazas, some venues, you know. Around.”  
  
“They wanted you to do the Sunrise Spectacular last year,” Isabel recalled, and Héctor snorted and rolled his eyes.  
  
“Wasn’t able to cross the bridge for something like 90 years and they think I’m gonna spend my first Dia de los Muertos here and not with my family? That’ll be the day.”  
  
“Good call,” Isabel agreed. “Are you planning on playing anywhere in particular soon?” Héctor thought about it.  
  
“You know Adelita Plaza?”  
  
“Ooo, I love Adelita Plaza!” Isabel gasped. “They have the best cantinas there!”  
  
“The band’s playing at Ortega’s next Saturday,” Héctor said with a grin. “You should come!”  
  
“There’s a band now?” Posada sounded so genuinely interested that Héctor didn’t seem to remember he was supposed to be scared of her.  
  
“Yeah, yeah! Just, uh, some people I know from the artist’ district, a couple of the old guard from Frida Kahlo’s place, you know? We play some new stuff, some old stuff, we try to mix it up a bit.”  
  
“That sounds lovely! Do you play much around here, with the family?”  
  
The energy left Héctor as abruptly as it had come, and he almost seemed to deflate. “Oh, eh, no. Not, uh. Not too much, actually. Just uh, you know. Keep work at work, you know?” Isabel nodded in understanding, but Miguel watched Posada glance around the store, glance at Héctor, and then make another note.  
  
“Let move on to the kitchen, hm?” Mama Coco said quickly, reaching over and taking Héctor’s hand in hers as she single-handedly herded everyone out of the store and into the attached living area.  
  
The kitchen was bigger than the one back home and painted in vibrant oranges and greens. Copper and cast iron hung from the ceilings, white-washed cupboards hung from the walls, and there was the kind of counter space that Mama and _Abuelita_ talked about wistfully, with an island sitting in the center and extra on either side of the sink and oven.  
  
Past that was the dining room, with so many huge windows and doorways with no doors that it was more or less outside instead of a separate room. The centerpiece was a table that seemed frankly huge but also old and well-loved. The edges were worn away, leaving the whole thing looking soft and round, and the tabletop was worn smooth with years of plates, mugs, bowls, and hands resting on it.  
  
The last room on the north side was the family room, a warmer, somewhat larger room with big, comfy-looking couches and chairs, a tv, and enough room for Pepita to curl up inside along with everyone else. There were photos everywhere, some of the living and some of the dead. Miguel saw himself in some of them, and his sister, his parents, the twins and Abel and Rosa.  
  
The sight of them all, their smiling faces and his own, made Miguel’s breath catch. He swallowed back the urge to cry and listened to Isabel and Mama Imelda make small talk.  
  
“’ey, _chamaco_.” Miguel flinched as Héctor stepped up next to him and whispered softly, “You okay?”  
  
“Y-yeah…” Miguel mumbled, unable to meet Héctor’s eye. He felt like he was going to shake apart. Héctor glanced around, left arm reaching up in a jerky, aborted movement towards Miguel before dropping back down to his side abruptly. As Mama Imelda and Isabel continued to chat, an awkward little moment dropped between them like a skipped heartbeat.  
  
“Need to get out of here?” Héctor asked finally. Miguel nodded so hard he felt something click in his neck. “Hey, maybe we head on back, eh?” Héctor suggested. “Get some drinks or something?” Mama Imelda shot him a questioning glance, irritated at the interruption, but then her expression cleared and she maneuvered everyone back towards the kitchen. Miguel wished he was able to say something to Héctor, or hug him, or something. At least in the kitchen, there were no pictures.  
  
The adults stood around the island with coffee while Miguel nursed a hot chocolate with Dante nearby. The alebrije watched him with concern as he tried to do the breathing stuff that Isabel had talked to him about but it didn’t work because it never worked, it was all just stupid.  
  
He glanced at the clock. It had only been about an hour. There was still two to go. What else was there to do? Isabel had said he could ask to leave whenever he wanted but they were all talking and there wasn’t really any reason he wanted to go, he just…  
  
Being here felt like a lie. He couldn’t imagine actually living here, or being here, or whatever. He was too broken, too jumpy, too different. It all seemed like a waste of time.  
  
No one else seemed to realize it yet, but they would. They all acted like they wanted him here but they’d see they didn’t, not really.  
  
The hot chocolate suddenly tasted like dirt in his mouth but he didn’t know what to do with it. There wasn’t much left, at least.  
  
“You done, _chamaco_?” Héctor asked suddenly, making Miguel jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
“No, no… I mean, yeah. I am.” Héctor held out his hand.  
  
“I can take it for you.” Miguel nodded and handed it to him.  
  
As Héctor turned back towards the sink, Miguel watched as the mug slipped from his hand and shattered across the tile with a crash. Cold dregs of hot chocolate and crockery scattered across the floor, a couple managing to make it all the way outside. Héctor’s left hand grabbed his right wrist and snarled a curse bad enough to make Miguel gasp and Mama Coco wince.  
  
“Héctor!” Mama Imelda said, appalled. Héctor flinched, actually taking a step back away from Mama Imelda and crunching a piece of the mug under his shoe.  
  
“S-sorry, sorry,” he stammered. “Let me, uh…” He hesitated, looking around like a deer in headlights, seemingly lost in his own kitchen as an uncomfortable beat passed where everyone simply stared. Miguel forced himself to look away, finding a crack in the tile to look at.  
  
“Here.” Papa Julio broke the silence, going over to the cabinets under the sink and grabbing a small dustpan and hand broom. Miguel listened to the tinkling of pottery across the tile as they swept it up, and when he looked back at Héctor, he was dumping the broken pieces into the trash. He looked… shaken. Nervous.  
  
“ _Señor_ , are you alright?” Posada asked, eyebrow raised. Héctor flinched again before trying to pass it off as a cough, chuckling awkwardly and rubbing his arm, his hand tightening around his wrist with audible tension.  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m uh, I’m fine. I just need to, um…” He pointed towards the courtyard. “Quick smoke, just real quick. I’ll be right back, I promise.”  
  
“Take your time,” Isabel said, and Héctor nodded gratefully. With an apologetic look at Miguel and another glance that was more difficult to read at Mama Imelda, Héctor hurried off into the courtyard.  
  
“Is he usually that nervous?” Posada asked. Mama Imelda shrugged with a frown, but Mama Coco spoke up.  
  
“He just wants to make sure everything goes okay.”  
  
“Everything’s going fine,” Isabel said with a smile. “You can’t even imagine some of the homes we see and some of the answers we get on our first visits sometimes. You guys are top-tier so far.” Posada said nothing, but Miguel figured that was as much of an agreement as his family was like to get, whether they knew it or not.  
  
“So, does everyone but Héctor work in the store full-time?” Isabel asked. Mama Imelda shook her head, latching onto the change of subject with obvious gratitude.  
  
“Coco doesn’t work in the store, and Rosita helps around the house with her.”  
  
They kept going but eventually, everything they said just sounded like noise. Miguel tried to focus and listen, but somehow nothing stuck. _It’s such a waste of time..._  
  
He glanced at them all, standing around the table and talking like he wasn’t there. Not even Posada was paying him much mind, her eyes flicking between Isabel and whoever was talking at the time, Mama Imelda or Mama Coco or Papa Julio. Their voices were just buzzing. Noise, noise, noise.  
  
Dante chuffed at his hand and pushed up under it for a pet.  
  
Miguel crept out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. On the far end, closer to the gate, Victoria and Héctor stood together, smoking. Héctor said something that made Victoria laugh and shove gently at his shoulder, and he grinned like he used to, the way Miguel remembered him doing.  
  
Miguel looked around. He didn’t want to go back into the kitchen, he didn’t want to stay out here and interrupt _Tía_ Victoria and Papa Héctor. Dante pressed against his leg and whined softly.  
  
“It’s fine,” Miguel whispered, holding his stuffed animal to his chest like a totem and petting Dante with his free hand. “It’s fine, Dante.”  
  
The only other things to look at were the bedrooms. He knew he probably shouldn’t, but abruptly, the curiosity gnawed at him.  
  
“Just a peek,” he reasoned, creeping across the courtyard towards the one at the end. “No big deal.” Dante whined again, louder this time. “ _Callate_ , Dante!” Miguel hissed, glancing up at Héctor and _Tía_ Victoria. Thankfully, they’d moved closer to the shop and seemed to be chatting with the ones inside.  
  
Was the one at the end… supposed to be his? He couldn’t remember. Maybe? Yeah… yeah, this one was supposed to be his. So really, it was fine if he looked inside. It was supposed to be his room anyway. Glancing back one more time to make sure the coast was clear, he opened the door and peeked in.  
  
The room was dark and a little cluttered. The bed was low to the ground and shoved against the back wall, unmade and covered in clothing. A dresser was against one wall, a desk against the other, and a plain guitar sat on a stand off to the side. It wasn’t The Guitar, but Miguel could tell it was nice. An ashtray sat on the desk next to a notebook and some sheet music paper, dirty and full of cigarette stubs. The scent of cigarettes hung in the air and made Miguel sniffle and cough.  
  
Dante took Miguel’s pant leg gently in his teeth, trying to tug him back.  
  
It was dark and cramped and it smelled like cigarettes.  
  
Miguel’s stomach twisted and pain shot up his leg in a sudden jolt that sent him to the floor. Dante barked in alarm and trotted forward, nudging at Miguel’s face as he curled up, wrapping his arms around his leg as much as he could as the pain began to grow in his head too, and his chest, and his stomach, _and and_ ** _and_**  
  
_“You know, it’s funny. I can’t really decide if I still want you around here.”_  
  
Miguel?  
  
_**Just let me go home.**_  
  
_“Wanna see if today’s your lucky day, kid? Don’t whine. Big kids don’t whine. If I wanted a whiner, I’d have grabbed your sister.”_  
  
Miguel, _cariño_ , can you hear me?  
  
_**click**_  
  
_“Damn, looks like something wants us to be together, little man.”_  
  
“Miguel? Miguel, deep breaths, just breathe.”  
  
Something wet was dragging across Miguel’s face, and distantly, he thought he heard a motorboat.  
  
“Miguel, breathe.”  
  
It was hard with the tape around his head and the snot in his nose, but he tried, god he tried. Tried to breathe past the gag reflex and the tears and the pain as something wet and warm nudged at his face and the motorboat got closer.  
  
“Miguel, we need to move you. Can you move?” How could he move if he couldn’t even breathe? The pain in his leg was incredible, they’d broken it after he tried to run up the stairs to the door and it had just gotten worse _and worse and worse and worse and_  
  
Something snuggled in under his arms, pressing against his chest and licking up under his chin.  
  
“I’m going to help you get outside, Miguel, okay? I’m going to lift you up a little and get you outside so you have some fresh air, okay?” Hands slipped beneath his arms and gently lifted him off the ground, and the warm little thing that had been pressed against him followed close as the air cleared and the floor changed and he felt warmth all around.  
  
Slowly, in waves, he came back. Dante pressed against him, licking his face until he was drenched but somewhat clear-headed. He was in the courtyard, propped up against Pepita, a warm, glorious mountain of fur and feathers, purring and curling around him protectively. Isabel was next to him, in his field of vision but out of reach, calm and quiet. Dimly, he was aware of his family clustered by the kitchen, a dozen wide eyes watching, wary and concerned. He couldn’t look at them. He couldn’t bear it.  
  
His head was pounding and his leg hurt so bad, he thought it was broken again.  
  
“You back with us, Miguel?” Isabel asked. Miguel nodded, exhaustion pressing down on him like a wave. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Tired,” Miguel whispered, and Isabel nodded.  
  
“Okay. Wanna go back to the Ward?” Miguel closed his eyes tight, trying and failing to keep the tears from falling as he nodded. “That’s fine. Can you walk, or do we need to grab the wheelchair?”  
  
“My leg hurts,” he choked out, and Isabel whispered, “That’s okay. I’ll get Posada to grab it, okay?”  
  
He could hear Posada declaring the visit over from across the courtyard as Isabel helped him into the chair, tucking blankets around him with as little contact as possible. Dante hovered nearby, threading his narrow little head under the armrest to rest in Miguel’s lap, and Pepita kept close, prowling between him and the others like a sentry.  
  
“Is he okay?” He heard Héctor ask, and Miguel wished he wasn’t dead so he could just die.  
  
“He’ll be okay, he just needs to get back to the Ward,” Posada said. Miguel half-expected an argument from someone, Mama Imelda at least, but no one dared.  
  
They bundled him back into the van, and Miguel looked up to see Dante sitting outside the door, head cocked and eyes big and hopeful.  
  
“Could…” Miguel couldn’t speak above a whisper. “Could Dante…?”  
  
“Sure.” Posada patted the seat next to her and Dante leaped up in an instant, curling up between her and Miguel. “Plenty of alebrije in the Ward. It’s no trouble.”  
  
“We’ll have to double check on that,” Isabel. “Different kids have different triggers. Dogs might be one for someone, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get back and see what we can do.”  
  
Miguel hazarded a glance out the window, and the sight made it feel like his ribcage was caving in. Everyone was standing out, watching the van go. They all looked so stunned and guilty and sad…  
  
“I shouldn’t have wandered off…” Miguel whimpered, tears slipping off his cheekbones as the van started down the road. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have,” Posada agreed. “But it’s alright. That’s not the concern right now.”  
  
“Was it the smell?” Isabel asked. Miguel swallowed hard, Dante twisting to press against him more firmly.  
  
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think so.”  
  
“Good to know,” Isabel said. “I’ll make sure they know so they can fix that for you, okay?”  
  
Miguel could feel the stares when he was wheeled back into the Ward, like bugs crawling on him. Though really, it had felt like things were crawling on him ever since he’d walked into Héctor’s room. He felt dirty. He felt small and weak and tired and helpless.  
  
He could still smell it. It was clinging to him somehow. That night in the shower, he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until it left little gouges in his bones, like scratches up and down his arms, his legs, his ribs, his face. It made everything tingly and tender, but he felt clean afterward, at least.  
  
He wondered how they could stand it, being in there. How Papa Héctor could stand it. How he could possibly be able to stand it.  
  
When he went to bed that night, the blankets almost too rough for his scratched and achy bones, the soft and colorful light of Dante filling the room the way a nightlight never could, he closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep.  
  
_**click**_


End file.
